Today you’re the last Thunderbird and you’re going to wander
down from your Thunderbird perch to town to buy a fifth of whiskey.
“Don’t see many of you anymore,” the shopkeep will say to
you.
You’ll shrug, which will cause rivulets of fire to cascade
off your shoulders. These rivulets of
fire will burn flesh from the bones of everyone in the store and you’ll be able
to flap home carrying all the booze you like without anyone fucking with you.
You’ll be able to drink for a year with all that booze,
which is good because as the last Thunderbird, you’re super lonely, which means
pretty much all you do is watch IFC and drink.
Congratulations Last Thunderbird!
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